Boys & Girls Together (25 page)

The kid. That was his reason. The kid loved corned beef. They had both discovered it some weeks ago when, out for lunch one day, Sid had given the boy a nibble of his corned-beef sandwich and the boy had lit up like a top. He loved it. He loved it and it wasn’t even Solomon’s, just some inferior junk from around the corner. Well, Sid thought as he hurried home, a brown paper bag under an arm, tonight, my son, tonight you dine in heaven.

Esther was out when he reached the apartment, so, after tenderly placing the brown bag of treasures in the icebox, Sid crossed to the living-room window and opened it, peering up to the top of the fire escape, looking for his son. The kid spent all of his time there, every free second, alone at the top of the fire escape, but now he was not there. Sid cursed mildly. Esther had probably taken him for a long walk. She was always doing that, taking him for marathons, showing him off to shopkeepers or the old ladies in the park. It wasn’t good for the boy, all that walking, not that Esther cared. One thing you had to say for Esther: she was a lousy mother. It was just like her, taking the kid out the one day
he
got home early. She probably planned it that way. She had a sixth sense, Esther did; she was a great depriver. Hell, Sid thought, I wouldn’t have taken him to any lousy park; I would have taken him to the
zoo
. But down was down and what was the point of aggravating yourself? The afternoon was his; he had to do something with it.

It was well after six before he got back from the poolroom. He hadn’t meant to stay that late but a couple of young wiseacres thought they could shoot pool and it had taken him that long to show them the error of their ways. He closed the apartment door and hurried to the kitchen, but when he got there he stopped dead: Esther was frying chicken.

“You’re frying chicken?” Sid said.

“I’m frying chicken.”

“You’re frying chicken?”

“Smart, my husband,” Esther said, tapping her temple. “He walks in and sees his wife frying chicken and before you can say Jack Robinson he’s figured out she’s frying chicken.”

“For dinner?”

“No, breakfast; I thought we needed a change. Of course for dinner, fool.” She flipped a thigh from one side to the other and the grease spat.

Sid edged to a safe distance from the stove, shaking his head as he saw the gravy, the peas, the mashed potatoes. “I already bought dinner,” he said.

“You what?”

“I already bought dinner. A special treat. It’s in the icebox. Didn’t you even look in the icebox to see if I might have bought dinner?”

“If I opened the icebox door every time I thought you might have bought dinner, the hinges would rust and fall off.” She jammed a long fork into a breast and turned it. “Ouch,” she said, rubbing the grease from her forearm. “Get out of my kitchen. I can’t concentrate with you in my kitchen.”

“A special treat,” Sid repeated. “You should have looked. Corned beef and cole slaw and pickles and cheesecake. All from Solomon’s.”

“Solomon’s?” Esther shot him a look.

“On sale,” Sid answered quickly. “Everything was on sale.”

“If you’ve bought it, you’ve bought it,” Esther said. “We’ll have it tomorrow for lunch.”

“We’ll have the chicken tomorrow for lunch.”

“Corned beef keeps. Chicken’s no good cold.”

“Chicken’s no good cold?
Chicken’s no good cold?
Are you crazy?”

“Don’t shout. The boy will hear you.” She gestured toward the fire escape.

“Chicken is delicious cold!”

“I said don’t shout.”

“Chicken is delicious cold,” Sid said. “And we’ll have it tomorrow for lunch. Just because you were too stupid to look in the icebox—”

“Don’t argue with me,” Esther said.

“Who’s arguing? I’m telling.”

“That stuff from Solomon’s isn’t healthy. No good for a growing boy.”

“Chicken fried in grease is so healthy? Potatoes are so good for you? I notice the Irish are conquering the world, they’re so healthy.”

“The boy likes chicken.”

“
You
like chicken.”

“And you hate corned beef, I suppose.”

“I bought it for the boy.”

“Who am I cooking this for?”

“The boy loves corned beef.”

“He’s never even
had
corned beef.”

“That’s a lie and he loves it and he’s eating it for supper.”

“He’s having chicken for supper because he loves chicken.”

“Corned beef more. I know my son.”

“You know nothing about your son. He prefers chicken.”

“Corned beef.”

“Chicken.”

“Corned beef!”

“Chicken!”

“Corned—”

“Chicken—chicken!”

“
—beef!
”

“Rudy,” Sid called out the window.

“Yes, Father.”

“Supper,” and he watched as the child nodded, rose from his seated perch at the top of the fire escape and raced down the steps to the apartment. Ducking his dark head, the tiny creature slipped through the window, landing silently on the fraying rug, clean palms exposed to his mother’s inspection even before she said “Hands?” Ordinarily when he beat her she smiled. Tonight she did not.

“Sit,” Esther said.

The child approached the dining table and stopped, staring at the serving plates filled with chicken and corned beef and mashed potatoes and cole slaw and gravy and Russian dressing and peas and dill pickles and pineapple cheesecake and chocolate fudge cake that his mother had made early in the afternoon. The boy stared at the table, which was small, so that none of the serving plates was lying fully flat but instead tilted and balanced against each other, barely leaving room for the three clean plates from which they would eat. All the plates were crammed on top of his mother’s best tablecloth, beautiful and white, with delicate lace edges. The boy stared at all this for a time, then quickly looked up for his parents’ eyes.

“A feast, isn’t it, Rudy?” Sid said.

The boy nodded.

“All for you,” Esther said.

The boy smiled.

“Sit down, sit down,” Sid said. “Everybody sit down.”

Everybody sat down.

“Now listen, Rudy.” The boy looked at his father. “There’s two different kinds of meals here; maybe they won’t go together so good. So you pick whichever you want. But first—”

“Let him alone,” Esther said.

“First just a word about the corned beef. It’s from Solomon’s, Rudy. You remember me talking to you about Solomon’s, how they make the finest corned beef in the world, let alone Chicago? Well, I bought it today for
you
, because you’ll remember your first taste of Solomon’s corned beef all your life, I promise you, but if you’d rather have your mother’s chicken, I won’t mind a bit. Of course, you’ve
had
your mother’s chicken many times before and you’ve
never
had any of Solomon’s corned beef—you’ve only heard me speak about it—but like I said, eat what you want, I don’t care one way or the other.”

“Eat the chicken, Rudy,” Esther said.

“The boy can make up his own mind.”

“You call what you just said letting him make up his own mind?”

“Rudy, I didn’t try and influence you just now, did I?”

The boy shook his head.

“Rudy and me, we understand each other,” Sid said, and he-forked some corned beef onto his plate. “I don’t know about anybody else, but I’m hungry.”

Esther reached for a piece of chicken and put it on her plate. “I love fried chicken,” she said. “And this looks awfully good, if I do say so my—”

“Oh,” Sid interrupted. “Oh, oh, oh, this corned beef. Oh. Oh, my God, that old man Solomon is a genius, oh, oh, it melts in your mouth like ambrosia, it’s so tender and—”

“My best chicken skin,” Esther cut in. “Just so crisp.”

“I’m in heaven,” Sid said. “Eat, Rudy.”

“Yes, Rudy, eat.”

The boy hesitated, his hand hovering first over the corned-beef platter, then over the chicken, back and forth, back and forth, and then it hawked down, plucking a chicken leg. Esther started to smile but stopped as she saw her son’s other hand gathering up corned beef, the two hands depositing their loads simultaneously onto his plate. Isolating a piece of meat, a piece of fowl, he stuck them both onto his fork and gobbled them down, smiling at his parents briefly before reaching out for the cole slaw and the mashed potatoes and the pickles and the gravy, and when his plate was heaped high he began to eat.

“Not so fast, not so fast,” Esther said as he downed a spoonful of potatoes, an equal helping of cole slaw.

“That corned beef’s so good it brings tears to your eyes, huh, Rudy?”

The boy ate a piece of corned beef and there were tears in his eyes.

“You like my chicken?” Esther said.

“It’s ... all ... so ...”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Esther said.

“Wonderful,” the boy mumbled. “Wonderful.” And he continued to eat, gulping everything down as fast as he could, all the food, hot and cold, bland and sharp, staring at his plate, and when it was empty he looked up at his parents, saw their eyes, hesitated a moment before reaching out, filling his plate again, filling it with everything, everything.

“It’s my best chicken, isn’t it, Rudy?”

The boy nodded, continuing to eat.

“You ever taste corned beef like that before, Rudy?”

The boy shook his head, eating relentlessly.

“It looks like any other corned beef,” Esther said.

“Yeah, well, it ain’t.”

Esther reached for a piece of the meat and nibbled. “It is good,” she said. “I’ve got to admit it.”

“Chicken’s perfect,” Sid said, munching on a wing.

The child closed his eyes briefly, continuing to eat. He opened his eyes. His plate was still half full, so he took a deep breath and dug in, forking the stuff into his mouth until finally, finally, his plate was empty and then he closed his eyes again.

“Some meal,” Sid said.

“Rudy, clear the table,” Esther said, and the child stood and carried the plates to the kitchen. It took him many trips, but when he was done the table was empty except for the chocolate fudge cake and the pineapple cheese. Esther cut a piece of fudge cake and put it on his plate.

“Try the cheesecake, Rudy,” Sid said.

“Later, if he’s still hungry,” Esther said.

“The cheesecake is a specialty of Solomon’s. Cut him a piece of cheesecake.”

“Go on, Rudy,” Esther said. “Eat.”

“
I’ll
cut him a piece of cheesecake,” Sid said, and he grabbed for the knife.

“Rudy loves my fudge cake.” Esther pulled the knife out of Sid’s reach.

“Some people love junk.”

“Are you saying my fudge cake tastes like junk?”

“I don’t know. What does junk taste like?”

“Junk tastes like junk.”

“Sounds like your fudge cake.”

“What do you know? What do you know? You don’t know anything except how to ruin a meal. I fixed this marvelous meal and you ruined it.”

“Who said it was marvelous?”

“You did! You said the chicken was perfect. And so is my fudge cake. I make the best fudge cake! Nobody makes fudge cake like I make fudge cake! I’ll stack my fudge cake up against any fudge cake in the—
Rudy
,
not on the tablecloth!
”

Too late, the child clapped both hands to his mouth, jumped up, ran to the bathroom and dropped to his knees over the toilet, shutting the door. The toilet flushed, but the door did not immediately open. Several minutes passed. Then there came a sound from the bathroom, the toilet flushed again, and then slowly, slowly, the door opened.

“My mother’s best tablecloth,” Esther keened, sponging at if feebly, shaking her head. “My mother’s best tablecloth. An heirloom ruined.”

The child took a step toward them.

“It’s all over the fudge cake,” Sid said. “The cheesecake too. Both of them.”

Another step forward.

“What’s the matter with you, what’s the matter with you?” Esther glared. “Are you an animal? A pig? You can’t eat without getting sick all over my mother’s best tablecloth? What’s the matter with you?”

“I’m ... sorry,” the boy said. For a minute he shook. Then he was gone, whirling and gone, out the window and up the fire escape, gone.

“What’s the matter with you?” Esther shouted after him, staring at the window a moment before throwing the sponge onto the tablecloth, slumping back in her chair, her arms clasped behind her, breasts jutting. “What’s the matter with him? What is it with that boy?”

“Easy, Esther.”

“I’ll talk how I want to. He can’t hear me.”

Yes, I can. Yes, I can. Every word.

“Done is done, Tootsie.”

“Look at this tablecloth. Made by hand. Priceless. Look at it.”

“It don’t exactly whet the appetite.”

“I just don’t know what it is with that boy. Don’t I try?”

“Don’t we both?”

“Yes. Both. And look at the thanks we get. Just ... don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Sid, I mean it, Sid—”

“That’s my name.”

“The blinds are open.”

“Not in the bedroom.”

“I’m just too upset—don’t
doooo
that.” Laughter.

“Dessert. I’m still hungry. I want a piece of Esther. Beats cheesecake all hollow.”

Laughter.

“Come on, Tootsie.”

“First let me clean this up.”

“The kid made the mess. Let him clean it.”

“The kid. Chicken and corned beef and look what he does with it. Spoiled, that’s all he is. How many kids get chicken and corned beef? Hash he’ll get from now on. Hash he understands. That’s all he deserves, hash.”

Outside and above them, the tiny face nodded, mouth open, eyes closed, yes, yes.

“I’m terribly hungry,” Sid said. “Faint from hunger. Dangerously weak.”

“Not
that
weak, I hope.”

“Never
that
weak, Tootsie.”

Laughter. Fabric. Then a door.

Silence.

The dark child clung to the fire escape. His tiny hands gripped the rusted red bars; his feet dangled in space. Pushing his head through the bars, he stared at his feet and, below them, the narrow back alley. Slowly at first he began to kick his feet, and when they were running he raised his eyes, challenging the setting sun. Eventually, of course, his legs tired and the sun forced him to look away. The boy fell back then, lying flat, facing the gentler sky. He did not know the word “unworthy,” but the feeling was familiar.